


Wish I Had You Back

by olvi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olvi/pseuds/olvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith reminisces about his time at the Garrison and about someone who made a very significant impact on his life.<br/>-<br/>Takes place after Keith got kicked out of the Galaxy Garrison, before Shiro came back to Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish I Had You Back

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be a fun idea to give this Keith and Shiro brother AU my own little spin, so here it is!  
> 

All I had to guide me home were the footsteps I'd left behind.

The sky had grown dark hours ago, but I hadn't expected there to be close to no light out whatsoever. I guess both the moon and the stars were feeling pretty dull.

Honestly, I hadn't been in a bright mood myself for that entire day. That might've been a good thing, though—sure, I could walk myself home in the dark, that's never bothered me very much. But, for some reason, I couldn't help but find myself staring at the ground and my feet as I wandered back to the little, crumbling desert shack that I called a home.

Dragging my feet had always been a habit that I've never seemed to catch in time, especially whenever I'm not in a very pleased mood. I followed what I could see of the trail of lengthened footsteps that I'd left while I was on my way to the mountains during the daytime. There wasn't ever much for me to do out here all by my lonesome, so I tended to just explore.

It was almost completely silent that night, but that wasn't too unusual. Almost every other night had been like that since I was booted from the Galaxy Garrison and fled from society. All that could be heard was my soft, slow breathing and the muffled sound of my boots crushing and flattening the dirt beneath me.

It was pretty soothing, actually. Just me, alone in this dark, deserted area, listening to nothing else but myself trying to keep calm. That was all I'd focused on as I journeyed back to my current residence.

 

\---

 

I still have no idea of how long it must've taken me to finally get to my place, but it sure as hell felt like forever. Normally, it wouldn't take too long to get from that mysterious, mountainous area to my shack, but this time felt different. It was probably just because I hadn't been focusing on any of my surroundings other than the ground and my self-made footpath, but I still wasn't exactly feeling like myself.

That was the least of my problems, though, so I tried not to think too much about it.

I stepped upon the porch before my house, causing the wood to emit a faint, but familiar creaking sound. This was a bit comforting to hear, and the sound oddly made me feel somewhat less tense with stress. That short wave of relief quickly washed away as soon as I flung the door open, though, simply because of the sight that I was welcomed with.

The place looked like as much of a wreck as it always had, so I was used to this. But, at that moment, I just... didn't find it appealing.

There were books strewn across the shelf, some lying on the floor; the thin, light cream colored blanket was hanging off of the side of the couch that I slept on; the scratchy, see-through fabric that I hung up over the window to act as a curtain was drooping lowly on the wall, like usual; the board with my notes and research on those mountains, and the caves, the blue lion, whatever this whole event thing that I found out about was... It all looked unorganized to me for some reason.

After looking around at my surroundings inside of the small building for a good—I don't know—ten minutes? I felt as if I was supposed to do something about it. Clean up a bit, maybe...

I used to have someone who would help me clean up my room.

He used to help me with a lot. But why was this only just beginning to bother me? I'd been living on my own for a while by that time, and I've gotten used to living by myself and learning how to take care of things on my own.

I've never been a very tidy person, so I should've been completely fine with coming back to a messy room. But I wasn't.

As much as I didn't want to change anything about this area because of how comfortable I often found myself in it, and how I still had quick and easy accessibility to items since they were almost always kept in the same spot—I also wasn't up for doing anything else that night, as I was getting pretty tired, unmotivated, and feeling somewhat uneasy at this point—I eventually found myself picking up a few of my belongings and placing them in a spot that I thought suited them better.

I first picked up a few of the sticky notes that had fallen off of my board and onto the floor. There were a variety of colors of the papers: white, pink, purple, red, green, yellow, and blue. I had them color coded in a way—the notes written on the blue papers related to one thing, while what I had written on purple ones meant something else. Taking another glance at them, though, I realized that a handful of the papers had handwriting on them that looked like a bunch of scribbles as if I were rushing to get the notes down when I wrote them.

I placed the sticky notes that I'd picked up back onto the large bulletin board, some going in the places where they needed to be, while others were just stuck where there was space. I was trying my best not to get distracted from cleaning with trying to figure out more about what I'd been finding around this place.

The dozens of books splayed out on the floor and across the shelf was the next thing I set out to rearrange.

Few of them were displayed for decoration to make the room look more lively, even though this place wasn't set up to catch anyone's eye. It was solely meant for myself.

I've always had an interest in nonfiction novels specifically about history, theories, journals, and other good stuff like that, so most of the ones I owned consisted of those things.

I gathered some hardback books that were lying below the wall shelf and the few that were underneath the small table that was placed in the middle of the room. The table was really just the roughed up top of a wooden coffee table that I'd found in a dumpster being held up by cinder blocks, but, hey, you take what you can get.

I placed the hardcovers back on the bookshelf, straightening them out, but not placing them in any specific order. As they were moved to another location, I couldn't help but notice one book that stood out to me in particular.

It was larger than the rest, both in height and in width, but not by too much. The cover was a faded, dark turquoise color, and the edges were slightly beat up and torn. This one looked so different from all the other books surrounding it, but I didn't recall ever seeing it before.

I picked it up to inspect it more because I had absolutely _no_ idea whatsoever of where it could have come from. I wanted to know what it was about or if I could recognize anything from it just by looking at a page or two.

As I began to lift the cover, something fell from one of the last sheets and landed flat on the floor. All that stared up at me was a small, white piece of thick looking paper, but I soon realized that it was the blank side of a photograph. I didn't bother to pick it up just yet, though, and I instead revealed the first page of the large book that I had in my hands.

The page was laminated, as were all the others that followed after it. The plastic covers were protecting several photos behind nearly every single sheet, and the people in the pictures had eerily familiar looking faces.

After quickly flipping through several pages, I realized that I somehow had a hold of my long gone family's scrapbook.


End file.
